


Grounded

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bottom Mycroft Holmes, Fluff and Angst, In A Universe Without All The Mess Of John And Mary, M/M, No Eurus Holmes, Sibling Incest, Top Sherlock, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: After a rather challenging case, Sherlock is in need of some distraction. Mycroft is pleased to provide it.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 12
Kudos: 112





	Grounded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



> Really just some fluffy smut :)

“Fuck, what a case.” John led the way, stumbling into 221b. His clothes were soaked and his hair looked as if a few birds had done their best to build a nest in it. Every attempt at smoothing it down had just made it worse.

Sherlock, suspecting that he was not looking any neater, nodded while closing the door as quietly as possible to not wake Mrs Hudson. The three past days and nights in a nutshell. He and John chasing an exceptionally nasty killer who had always been at least two steps – and even more corpses – ahead of them. Lestrade and his team trying to catch up. Futile, as always…

“I need a beer, a shower and twelve hours of sleep. In that order,” announced John. “Care to join me?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “In the shower? I don’t think so. And I’m sleeping alone, thank you very much.”

John snorted. “Smartarse.”

“What an original insult.”

“Boy, don’t expect me to be original after this ordeal. A beer or not?” The doctor gave him a good-natured glare.

“No, thanks. I’ll be off to bed. And I’ll shower first while you’re enjoying your nasty alcohol.” Beer from a can. Appalling, really.

“Sure.” John yawned. He looked as if he was close to falling asleep on the spot. The merits of being a doctor _and_ a soldier – being able to find rest within a moment after witnessing gore and mayhem.

Sherlock wasn’t that tired. Or that relaxed. He should have been – it was almost one am and he had hardly gotten any sleep for nights on end – but he was too wired after finally solving a case that had easily been a ‘ten’. He didn't come down from his adrenaline highs as easily as his partner did. And perhaps, being a sociopath or not, he was not that acclimatised to people having been cut into neat little pieces… It was the thrill of the chase and figuring out the case he sought – not literally puzzling human bits together... The victims had not exactly been the most decent members of society but it had still been rather repelling to stumble over arms and legs that were not attached to their bodies anymore.

He hurried to scrub himself down as quickly and vigorously as possible after stripping off and shedding the clothes that had seen better days, managing to brush his teeth and shave himself simultaneously after his very hot shower. When he left the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he bade John and his empty beer can goodnight, yawning ostentatiously. Even after all these years of living together, John was still so easily fooled…

Sitting in the chair in his bedroom, dressed in fresh clothes, he waited for the noises of the shower spray to subside. He listened to John, who had obviously foregone shaving, climbing the stairs to his bedroom. Waited for another ten minutes. Then he left his chamber on silent feet. There was no way to sleep or even relax. Something was sorely missing after this long, exciting, exhausting and frankly disgusting case. Something to calm him down. To ground him. Not _something_. _Someone_.

*****

He had not switched on any lights. Silently, he had unlocked the door after typing the alarm code in, activating it again after slipping into the house. He had hung up his coat and left his shoes at the wardrobe, climbing the stairs on sock-clad feet. He stripped in the hallway, putting his clothes onto a chair next to the bedroom door, and entered the silent room which was only dimly illuminated by the moon shining through the not quite closed curtains.

The figure on the bed didn’t move when he lifted the blanket and lay down but he knew his brother had woken up the moment he had entered the house. Probably when he had left the cab…

He put his head onto the warm chest, feeling the silky fabric of the posh pyjamas against his cheek, allowing his body to slump against his companion. A long arm was curled around him, and he sighed, feeling something in him shift. Getting lighter. A weight he hadn't even noticed vanishing slowly.

“All tense, little brother,” Mycroft mumbled against his forehead, squeezing his shoulder.

“Very,” Sherlock confirmed. “But about to get better.”

“Solved your nasty case.” It wasn’t a question.

“Finally.” Sherlock was sure that Mycroft had been following him by tracking his phone and using the street cameras. They had texted only rarely over the past days – Mycroft had been every bit as busy as him. But he was sure that Mycroft knew everything about the case that Sherlock knew. He had most certainly seen the reports of the Met. Including the horrible crime scene pictures. Mycroft understood. In fact, he understood everything.

He nuzzled his face against Mycroft's neck, breathing in the infatuating scent of clean skin with the subtle hint of yogurt-strawberry body wash – Mycroft's guilty pleasure. Sherlock gave him a new bottle every few months. It was like a running gag. A ritual. One of many.

“Ah,” Mycroft made, his hand sliding over his back. “Haven’t come down yet. Need to work off all that silly adrenaline.”

Sherlock grinned against his neck and nibbled at the tender skin. Lovely, warm brother. New aftershave. Tasty. “Mmm.”

“Anything big brother can do to help you there?”

It was probably forbidden to have such a sultry voice. “I guess so.”

“Mm.” Mycroft sneaked his other hand under the blanket, rubbing Sherlock's cock, which had, already thickening, started to snuggle against his thigh, getting fully hard within the blink of an eye. “Hm. What do we have here?”

“It’s my cock,” explained Sherlock, helpfully.

He could hear Mycroft's grin. “Is it now? Lovely. Pretty big, too. Soft on the surface, hard beneath. You think it would like to be put somewhere nice and warm?”

“And tight and sticky, Mycroft!” The elegant fingers around his throbbing erection felt marvellous and so would his lips and the hot cavern of his lovely mouth, but he needed more.

And his lover would give it to him, of course. “Ah, I know just the place for it.”

“I’m sure you do. Did you perhaps…”

“I might have indeed.”

Mycroft's pyjama trousers seemed to melt off his body. It was hot enough for that for sure, this lean, hairy body… Big brother had not bothered with underpants. And something was sticking in the place Sherlock longed to be in. “Mr Foresight you are!”

“Mr A-Bit-Presumptuous, too?” Mycroft teased him.

“Never, brother mine.” Sherlock worked the silicone plug out of his brother’s arse with careful fingers, bending his upper body to put the neat little helper onto the bed stand after sniffing at it – he couldn’t help it. He hummed when he felt how wide his brother was for him. How sticky indeed, filled to the brim with lube to welcome him.

And even though he loved to taste his brother and lick him ready for his intrusion, he, knowing Mycroft was more than ready, forwent any further preparation, lined up and slipped inside.

*****

With every thrust, with every moan that escaped Mycroft's mouth Sherlock got both calmer and more excited – something that seemed illogical but was true nonetheless. Sometimes he did wonder what he had done to deserve this bliss.

For a long time, he and Mycroft had been on opposite sides – he on the reckless, rebellious one, Mycroft on the reasonable, decent one. They had spent, no _wasted_ their time with stupid bickering whenever they met.

And then something Mrs Hudson had said had made Sherlock realise how stupid this was. Mycroft had been in Baker Street and had asked for his help on a case – but Sherlock had reacted in his usual nasty manner, telling him haughtily that he did not have time for his boring stuff. John had laughed and Mycroft had left without another word. Sherlock had suddenly felt bad about his own behaviour and had left the flat to take a walk in the cold. When he had walked down the stairs, Mrs Hudson had proceeded to come up with tea – and she had said that his brother had looked very sad when he had left.

Sherlock had wasted no time. He had taken a cab to Whitehall and demanded to see his brother instantly. Mycroft had called him in, looking surprised and even pleased to see him. Sherlock had not apologised with words – it had not been necessary as his eyes had told Mycroft that he was sorry. In the end he had solved the case and spent the evening having dinner with Mycroft. And from this moment on, things had only gotten better and better until they’d had to admit that they had fallen in love with one another.

And being with Mycroft, intimately being with him, was like magic for Sherlock. Burying his face in Mycroft's fine black hair, holding him tight while taking him in a slow, careful rhythm like he was doing now or being penetrated by big brother’s big cock, pinned to the bed, made helpless and safe and loved – it calmed down the demands of his brain like no drug or case had ever done. It painted the gory images of the day with the colour of deep love and affection. It erased the pictures of abused corpses and even such trivial inconveniences as accidentally kicking against a stone and hurting his toe or getting soaked in the rain. It filled his brain with images to dwell on and cherish on lonely days when they could not meet. In short, being with his brother and knowing his arms would always be open for him had become the essence of Sherlock's life.

He took him harder now, deepening his strokes, his hand now firmly wrapped around Mycroft's large erection, his hips clashing against his brother’s arse, chasing both their climaxes.

Mycroft reached it first, and Sherlock could feel his orgasm ripping through him and he might have even felt the seed shooting through his cock that he was still holding in a firm grip before it soaked the sheets. Mycroft's strong internal muscles strangled his own crisis from him and he spilled deep in his beloved’s body, holding him in a tight embrace before he let go, slumping against Mycroft's back, nuzzling his face against his shoulder, feeling sated and boneless and simply _good_.

“Thank you,” he mumbled when he had found his speech back.

“It was my pleasure, believe me.” Mycroft turned in his grip and they kissed, both getting lost in the dance of their tongues and lips, their hands pawing at one another.

Sherlock would have loved to stay but they both knew he couldn’t. He would have to be back when John woke up. Deceiving the world about their relationship, pretending that it was still awkward and hostile, was a small price they were willing to pay for living their forbidden love. The world wouldn’t understand it. As far as Sherlock was concerned, the world could kiss his arse but of course there was no risking it to come out and backfire at them.

But he would stay for a little while longer, holding his brother until he had found back to sleep, and then he would kiss him goodbye and sneak out, ending this long day in his own bed with no pictures of harm and mayhem on his mind but of the man he loved and was loved by.


End file.
